


Distant and Bitter, Sacred and Kept

by Saucery



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Religious, Badass Coat-Wearer, Bladed Weapons, Castrati, Castration, Castrato, Demons, Drama, Eunuchs, Fake Catholicism, Gender Issues, Gun Laws, Hunting, Irresistibility, Jugless, Knife Fetish, M/M, Religions, Religious Themes & References, Roman Catholicism, Sexual Identity, Sexual Tension, Singing, Slash, Slut vs. Prude, The Vatican Makes Them Do It, The Veela Syndrome, Theology, Veils, Virginity
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-05-21
Updated: 2011-05-20
Packaged: 2017-10-19 15:58:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saucery/pseuds/Saucery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where the Vatican controls both Hunters and demons, Dean is assigned an unexpected partner. Starring macho!Dean and castrato!Castiel. (No, really. Yes, really.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Distant and Bitter, Sacred and Kept

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Las](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Las/gifts).



It takes him fifteen minutes of wrangling in bad Italian before they let him anywhere near the Papal Library. He isn't parting with his blades, that's for sure; it's only when he manages to convince the morons on security that yes, he _is_ Dean Winchester and no, he doesn't go _anywhere_ unarmed that they finally confer on their dinky walkie-talkies and nod him through. He tips his hat at them and drags his mud-caked boots all over their shiny floor, beaming with relish.

Is he acting a little pissy? Yeah, maybe. The Vatican's not his favorite place to be, anyway, filled with old perverts and silver-tongued assassins, but this is his _job_ , and, for better or worse, these are his employers. He tries not to think of them that way.

"Mr. Winchester," greets the librarian, and smiles. He's this really skinny guy with a South African accent, vaguely Dutch and vaguely not, and he gives Dean hives just looking at him - like his skin's a husk and he's all musty breeze on the inside, his eyes pebble-hard and his aged lips lined with vertical grooves that look oddly like fangs. He's probably one of the Vatican's pet demons; the sigils along Dean's shoulders start to _itch_ , if not outright burn, in the way that means there's a leashed, geas-bound hellspawn nearby. Bound or not, it doesn't matter; it doesn't mean Dean still doesn't want to stake him, hard, right through his parchment-thin chest.

"Hey," Dean says, and maybe some of what he's thinking makes it out into _his_ smile, because the librarian flinches. And clutches at the cross hanging from his collar. Is that funny or is that _funny_? A demon, clinging to a cross?

"They're waiting for you," the librarian croaks - and gestures with his other hand to the heavy, hide-bound door.

"They damn right better be," mutters Dean, irritable and jet-lagged as he is at having been dragged halfway across the world for some crackpot pretty-boy. A guy that kills demons with his _voice_? Seriously?

No _way_ are they going to stick him with a partner. Let alone a nutty one. Look how that worked out for Bobby, with Rufus and his manic mood-swings - or Sammy, who they were stupid enough to stick with a _demon_ , how crazy was that? Not that Sam isn't getting along with her a little _too_ well, but Dean tries not to see that, honestly. He doesn't see that. He'll find a reason to take her down, one of these days - salt her, burn her, stake her, whatever. Sam will just have to get his head out of his ass.

"Dean," says Bishop Zarkov, warmly, when Dean pushes in past the library door. "So good to see you."

Dean grunts. And runs his eyes along the tonsured heads around the oval table. They look like a nest of speckled eggs; Dean feels incongruously like a prize rooster.

"This is Dean Winchester," Zarkov says to the gaping heads, who don't seem to know whether to stare at Dean's hat, his coat, his boots, or his knives. "The legendary Hunter, destroyer of the demon Azazel."

"Aw, you're making me blush," says Dean, and yanks out a chair to sit on. "Got any beer?"

Zarkov chuckles - and slides a can of Coors across the table. Hey, not _bad_. Can't have been easy, getting that in here - and the beer's even chilled, _nice_. All right, so maybe Zarkov is marginally less sucky than the last guy Dean had as his Vatican liaison. Now, if only Dean can convince him to hire _strippers_...

"No strippers, Dean," says Zarkov, and Dean wonders if he's that _obvious_ , or if Zarkov just knows him that well. "You'll have to put up with a bunch of tired old buzzards. Sorry."

"Nah, it's fine." Dean plants his muddy boots on the table; the nearest priest leans back. "So what can I do for you ladies?"

The bishop next to Zarkov - Mbutsu, maybe? - clears his throat. "Mr. Winchester," he says, "we appreciate your coming here on such short notice."

"Sure, no problem. Because, you know, it's not like I had to leave off _mid-hunt_ or anything. Or like that demon's eating someone's _head_ , right about now."

Zarkov winces. "This - is a matter of import, Dean."

"Then get it the hell over with and _import_ me back to America, already."

"James?" Zarkov glances at Mbutsu, who shakes his head. "He isn't here, yet," Zarkov says to Dean, "but he should be, soon."

"What, this guy you wanna pair me with? He couldn't even be bothered to _make_ it, and you want me to work with him?"

"You will show him some respect," says another voice, and Dean turns to see an unknown bishop - one of the many here - watching him. _Considering_ him, more like. With contempt. "He is gifted, and far more useful than you will ever be."

"Say _what_?" Dean knows he sounds amused; he can't help it.

"Uriel," says Zarkov to this other bishop, fucking _warningly_ , like maybe Dean's going to cut a bitch. Which Dean most definitely is not. Although Uriel's very bitch-faced, come to think of it.

"Okay," says Dean, all calm and cradling his Coors. "So this dude's 'gifted'. With, hm, a _voice_? That's what the call said, before you ordered me to drop what I was doing and get the heck over here to witness his amazing glory." Dean snorts. "First of all, he can't be that amazing if I've never even heard of him - because, oh, yeah, _you didn't mention his name_. Real impressive, there. I'm sure he's got a stellar track record of, I dunno, singing demons to sleep. And excuse me, but I think it takes more than _lullabies_ to - "

"He's here," says Mbutsu, suddenly, at the very moment the door creaks open again.

Dean glowers at it.

"Please, come in," says Zarkov, all tense and weirdly _excited_ , sprung like a chick waiting for her prom date, and _that_ \- more than anything else - gets Dean to take his boots off the table and sit the fuck _up_. Zarkov's a pushover with the beers and stuff, but he knows his demons. And he knows what can _kill_ them.

The first thing Dean sees, entering the room, is a tiny girl - dressed all in black, like she's in mourning, with a veil on her. She looks all of, what - five? Six? Really young. Then there's _another_ girl, a couple of years older, and Dean sees that she's holding onto a _hand_ , which materializes into a tall, slender man in a fitted robe, stepping hesitantly through the door. _He's_ wearing a veil, too, which is downright _whacked_ , but then Dean remembers just what sort of man is required to wear one of those while in the company of other men, and oh. _Oh_.

"Castiel," says Zarkov, all slow and worshipful, and Dean _jerks_.

"No way," Dean says. He's staring, because - hey, it's not like he's _seen_ one of these before, even in a veil, but this is _Castiel_ , not just one of the sacred choir but _the_ Holy Voice, and yeah, Dean's heard of him, and no wonder they didn't mention his fucking _name_ when they made the fucking _call_. Shit.

The man - _Castiel_ \- takes a seat right next to Dean, close enough for Dean to smell something like camphor and incense, and the girls settle on either side of him, kneeling on the floor, leaning against him like saplings against a tree.

"Uh," says Dean. "So, uh."

Castiel inclines his head.

"My master is pleased to meet you," says one of the girls, the one still holding his hand. "He hopes that your journey has been enjoyable."

See, now that's just freaky - how does she even know what her 'master' wants her to say? Unless it's rehearsed, but somehow... No, it doesn't feel like it. "I'm, uh," Dean decides to settle for honesty, "pretty surprised, actually. And the journey kind of sucked, sorry to say, but could you maybe get them to book me on something _other_ than United Torture Airlines, next time?"

Castiel's head _ducks_ , and the little girl giggles - does that mean Castiel's smiling, too? Somewhere inside that veil? "Our master will endeavor to improve your travel circumstances," she says, finally, and that's when Dean notices that her hand's _moving_ \- ever-so-slightly, like Castiel's hand isn't just resting in hers, but making minute movements. Gestures. Tapping out messages, maybe? Like a code? So _that's_ how -

"I'd, um, appreciate that," says Dean, still spellbound by that pair of hands, and their silent, but apparently flawless, communication. This is _way_ beyond freaky. And how is it even _possible_ that Castiel's fingers are as smooth as the kid's? Isn't he supposed to be, like, in his thirties? According to the news?

"He does not mind." The girl grins - her veil's thinner than Castiel's, and if Dean concentrates, he can make out her pale, cutesy features, complete with dimples and snub nose. "It will be to his benefit, as well, since he will be your traveling companion from now on."

From _now on_? Like, _always_?

Dean's brain does a very quick process of shutting down.

"I think we frightened him, master," whispers the girl, in a hushed voice, and Castiel squeezes her hand.

Zarkov speaks up. "We are... truly privileged to have you among us, Castiel, but might we - might we request a removal of the veil? Dea - Mr. Winchester needs to see you, before you both depart, and the Conclave of Bishops has assembled precisely to set you upon this mission."

 _This_ is the freaking 'Conclave'? This sorry bunch of - oh, yeah, buzzards. Zarkov had a point. Maybe Dean could even start _liking_ the guy.

"My master would respectfully decline," says the taller girl, while the silent one - the visibly _younger_ one - hitches closer to Castiel, as if frightened. Castiel's other hand comes to rest on her hair. "He is not permitted to remove the veil, unless engaged in service to God, or in the company of women and children."

"We humbly ask this of you," says Mbutsu, having the grace to at least look sheepish. "It is inevitable that your veil will be removed for this, ah, mission, and I am sure our Holy Father has conveyed the urgency of this matter to you."

"The _Pope_?" Dean's jaw drops. "The _Pope_ sent you here?"

"Do pardon us," Uriel cuts right over him, and Dean does _not_ like the gleam in Uriel's eyes. "But we dearly wish to see you, Castiel. We would look upon your face," the gleam becomes a _glint_ , "and hear the voice of legend."

Castiel stiffens.

"You _are_ presently engaged in service to God," Uriel says, cajolingly, like a used car salesman or a psychopathic nurse urging you to take just _this_ widdle injection. "The current mission, while outside the bounds of your training, is a service rendered unto God. Are you not _required_ to remove your veil?"

An eager buzz runs along the table - greedy voices of assent and eagerness, overlapping and merging into one - and suddenly, Dean totally gets why Castiel hesitated, entering this room. If _Dean_ felt like a prize rooster, then this is - this is fucking _obscene_.

Not that Dean hasn't _also_ been wanting a peek - heck, the rumors _alone_ , about what looking at one of - one of Castiel's _type_ can do to a guy - and it's not like any of the priestly perverts here have ever actually practiced chastity, but -

"You don't have to," says Dean, out of nowhere, surprising even _himself_ , and hears Castiel suck in a breath. "I mean, you've - what, spent your whole life like that? Wearing that? Then, um, what's the point of taking it off? Just to give these assholes a show?"

" _Dean_ ," grits Zarkov, and Dean raises his eyebrows, as if saying, _What?_

"It isn't merely to give us a 'show'," says Uriel, although his ingratiating sneer is so obviously that of a creepy voyeur that Dean's seriously starting to question his ordination. And what's with his tone, anyway? Wasn't _he_ the one who'd mentioned showing Castiel 'some respect'? "This is your mission, dispatched by the Pope, rendered by God. Or do you deny the word of God?"

"Master - " begins the girl, sounding alarmed, but Castiel pats her hand. Gently.

After a moment of trepidation, she stands up, reaches around Castiel's neck, and lifts the veil - which turns out to be attached to some sort of graduation-style cap, because it comes right _off_.

The room goes utterly, suddenly silent.

Dean barely has a moment to register dark hair, a smooth jaw, a fine-boned face - before Castiel looks up.

Right at _Dean_ , and Dean kind of... falls back in his chair, a little, because those eyes are so _blue_ , and it's like - it's like looking at the sky through one of those cut-glass cathedral windows, frost-clear and _bright_ , but then Castiel's gaze falls again, to rest on his own folded hands, and he isn't - he isn't holding either of the _girls'_ hands, anymore.

"My sincere apologies," he murmurs.

Just a _murmur_ , but his voice still manages to completely fill the silence - quiet, _fluid_ , and somehow -

Dean doesn't want to use the word _beautiful_ , but -

"I had not meant to disobey the word of God." A glance, at Uriel's face, quick to flick away. "It is a habit, merely. A human folly, to hide my face, and to find comfort in concealment. I beg your forgiveness."

Nobody answers him.

Heck, _Dean_ can't say anything - can barely do anything except _ogle_ \- like one of those Texan kids he'd saved from the minotaur, who'd just _stared_ at him like he was the Next Coming, or something. Which was, okay, flattering, but also _spacey_ , and Dean doesn't want to come off like that. He isn't sure _what_ he wants to come off as, or why he even _cares_ , but still. Gotta man up. Castiel isn't even - well, he's - he's _delicate_ , and there's something about him that, yeah, makes an otherwise straight guy _curious_ in a vaguely disturbing way, but he isn't all that different from any other person, except for the eyes and the, the _voice_ , but Dean has dealt with _succubi_ before without losing it, so this is - this is nothing.

"Ain't nothing to forgive, man." Dean's voice rasps. "Uh, I. I guess I should introduce myself again? I mean, not that I did _before_ , but they've probably told you about me already, and - " Dean snaps his mouth shut; he's _rambling_ , like a teenage nerd on his first date, which is embarrassing and totally lame, so he sticks his hand out and coughs. "Yeah. Hi. I'm - I'm Dean Winchester."

Castiel just... _sits_ there. And stares at Dean's hand.

"Dean," says Zarkov, _finally_ , in a strangled sort of way, "Castiel has never touched another man."

" _Seriously?_ " Deans says, before he can help himself, and then wishes he'd duct-taped his stupid mouth, because, Jesus, of _course_. The guy can't even show his _face_ to anybody, how could he possibly have - no, not thinking about that, _not_ \- "Sorry," Dean says, and starts to take his hand _back_ , but then both of Castiel's hands shoot out suddenly and _grab_ him, right around his wrist, and Dean - freezes, just _freezes_ , and blinks down at them. "Um."

"No, _I_ am sorry," says Castiel. "We have already been designated as partners for this mission, and I should not - I did not mean to - cause offense."

"Uh, no, _I'm_ the one who... probably caused offense," Dean says, and his brain's stuck on this scrolling technicolor marquee of smooth-they're-really-that-smooth that definitely _will_ cause offense if he says it out loud, so he swallows. "Um. You can. Let go, now."

Castiel's eyes dart up to his, startled, and a flush rises up his neck. Dean can't tear his eyes away from it. "Yes," Castiel says, softly, and takes his hands away.

Dean leaves his own arm dangling there, for a mindless second, before getting enough sense to shove his hand back into his pocket and stop acting like he's twelve years old and his incredibly hot English teacher with the D-cups, Ms. Matthews, just patted him on the head.

The bishops around the table are giving Dean a practically terminal case of the evil eye, and it's probably because he's the first man Castiel's ever _touched_ , but hey, virgin handshakes - wristshakes? - have gotta be fair game. Right?

And if he's _grinning_ , then Uriel can just take his bitch-face someplace else.

 

* * *

 

 **to be continued.**

Please review!

**Author's Note:**

> Since this is an alternate universe in more ways than one, Catholicism and the Vatican are portrayed in a manner that may, um, offend traditionalists. Uh. Sorry? Obviously, demons don't _actually_ exist in the Vatican.  Or do they? Haha. Let's just say that in _this_ universe, most major religions didn't develop the way they were supposed to. It neatly covers up for my lack of any actual knowledge about Catholicism, anyway, so let's _keep_ things that way, shall we?
> 
> More details about Castiel's history as a castrato and his duties as the Holy Voice will be revealed in the next installment. Stay tuned!


End file.
